Christmas Party
by Enochian Whisperer
Summary: Meg's been a fugitive of Hell ever since Lucifer was locked back up in the Cage and Crowley seized the throne, and she's certainly not the only Lucifer-loyalist on the run. Apparently demons in exile have their own way of celebrating Christmas. Implied Megstiel.


**Setting: Post-season 5 - Some obscure shanty location in some obscure city - Christmastime **

**Trigger Warning: Implications of past rape/molestation**

* * *

><p>The holidays were swinging back around again. Meg didn't really feel the holiday cheer around her the way humans tended to. She wasn't a Scrooge by any means. In actuality, the only thing that really bothered her about Christmas was that retailers rang it in earlier and earlier every year. Even she knew something wasn't right about that. Still, there was something about the Christmas aesthetic that was appealing. She didn't exactly have a family to get warm and cozy with anymore (Azazel's gang had all been wiped out, except for her), but she still had a few friends on the fringe. If "friends" were what they were.<p>

It wasn't easy being a fugitive of Hell. Meg had to constantly watch her own back, but she was lucky enough to find her way into a small group of like-situated demons. While she believed in safety in numbers, the she-demon couldn't ever be one-hundred percent certain that her ass was covered among these surly brutes. She always bore it in mind that if given a chance, any one of them would sell her out if it meant saving their own skin. That was what she missed the most about Azazel's gang. Loyalty was a more concrete idea among her late family. Of course, being demons, there was still that potential for betrayal, but it was less likely to occur. Meg's family had all loved one another in an usual sort of way. Meg still considered Azazel her father despite him being long gone.

"Hands up where I can see 'em," Meg announced herself as she swaggered into the abandoned warehouse where her group was camped out. There were sigils spray-painted on the walls–none of which were Devil's Traps, as that would be counter-productive–and each demon had a hex bag in their pocket. Meg included. She had a had a six-pack swinging from one hand and her other arm curled over a large brown bag.

Her party, huddled around a small flickering fire (A fire indoors? Perhaps not the wisest idea, but it wasn't like the smoke bothered any of them), looked up. While some of the demons stayed quiet, others welcomed her more enthusiastically.

"There she is!" exclaimed Rudy, who was on the run for hoarding a concealed surplus of souls rather than delivering them unto Hell as was decreed by His Royal Hine-Ass.

"I thought you were ditchin' us, you little bitch!" said Desmond. Meg didn't pay the slur any mind. Some demons simply forgot how to properly show affection. Desmond's favorable opinion of her didn't make her trust him any more, but she appreciated his tone.

"Boy, if I was ditchin' you," said Meg, quirking a flirty brow, "I'd be sure to shank you on my way out."

Desmond barked out laughing, clapping his hands like a seal.

"What're you waitin' for, pass the booze!" prompted an older female demon with traces of the South in her dialect. Meg obliged them. Pretty soon every demon in the joint had a drink in hand. She popped a squat between Desmond and a creature named Boris.

"Hold up, hold up!" called Desmond, swaying his bottle. "...I SAID HOLD UP."

Everyone stopped popping caps.

"Bein' that tonight's a special occasion-" A few snickered at the idea of demons celebrating the birth of Christ. "-I think it's in order to propose a toast." Meg heard one shaggy woman utter heinous things concerning the Virgin Mary, concerning _what_ exactly she'd like to do to her. Surely, she knew, she was among savages of the worst kind. Of course, Meg had sunk that low herself, she remembered. She recalled the terror scrawled on Jo Harvelle's face as she–while possessing Sam Winchester–leered over her. Of course, Jo wasn't the first she'd terrorized in that manner.

"To Crowley!" shouted Desmond, to everyone's surprise and probable offense, "May that damned throne crumble under his fat, lardy ass, and may his pointy, shiny crown one day choke the life out of him!"

Meg could drink to that. All raised their bottles.

"HERE-HERE!"

Whooping and hollering ensued.

For a brief moment, Meg felt a sense of normalcy pass over her. She was among her own people again, and it felt kinda nice. In commonality, everyone present detested Crowley. Some were Lucifer-loyalists like herself, and others had different reasons which landed them here and now. Everyone had their fill of leisurely drink, and soon enough it was hard to tell who was acting drunk and who really was drunk. Their "Christmas party" quickly turned into a shag-fest, and the horde of hell spawn was soon engaging in decadence, finding partners and shedding clothes—or keeping their clothes on. It wasn't readily known if any of the participants actually held romantic sentimentality toward any of their partners. If any did, it was entirely secret. Love was a dangerous weapon, even to demons of their ilk.

Meg was no exception. She decided to indulge. She wrapped Desmond around her finger relatively quickly, reeling him in by the dark scarf around his neck. She didn't care about exposing herself in the presence of her fellow fugitives. Hell had whipped any and all shame she once had from her conscience. It didn't feel wrong, but it didn't feel right either. There was no love poured into their love-making. She simply engaged him for the sensuality of it. Sex felt good, and it certainly felt good when every other part of her felt like shit. But something was different this time. While Desmond pounded into her, and little moans slipped from her mouth as she was pressed against that cold, damp, concrete floor, she didn't see Desmond. She saw that damned wayward pixie.

"Yeah, you like that huh?" she heard him ask, when her back arched to his touch. A sly expression etched on her face, illuminated by the fire. Someone nearby wailed from pleasure.

"_Baby, you have no idea_."

Meg hitched up a leg, catching it against his neck, and with a sudden exertion, she flipped him onto his back. Catching Desmond completely by surprise, she climbed on top of him with renewed eagerness and took him.

The she-demon reinserted him, and she rolled her hips invitingly. Her partner's breath seethed, and his hands gripped her pelvis, holding her in place as he thrust into her. Meg let her head fall back, feeling her dark curls brush over her bare back. Her head lolled aside as Demond's hips jumped up beneath her. She watched her fellow party-goers concerned with their own sessions, twisted up in their own positions, their voices and sounds of slick skin mingling in an awkward symphony of sex-crazed frenzy. Meg saw a threesome on the other side of the firelight. She saw a man's head sinking between the hag's legs. She grinned at one particular demon whose eyes were latched to her small, bouncing breasts, despite being pinned down himself by a muscled freak of nature.

"Don't look at them," commanded Desmond, drawing her attention back. "Only at me."

"Whatever ya say, cupcake," she drawled, only to be cut off by a particular good stroke that curled her toes. Meg looked into Desmond's eyes. In the dim, flickering firelight, she couldn't tell what color they were. For her own satisfaction, she pictured them a nice, juicy blue.

Meg picked herself up, to which Desmond nearly hissed at her, but then she dropped back down on him and he was star-struck. That mischievous grin returned.

For the rest of the night, every time Desmond moaned, Castiel moaned. Every time he twitched, Castiel twitched. Every time he came, Castiel came. Meg worked him over to completion again and again and again. Throughout the night, she switched partners, but inevitably always returned to Desmond. Her sessions with him were arguably the best she'd ever had. The only thing that could be better than this was if she had a whipped angel underneath her, completely strung out to where he could feel her in the very fibers of his Grace. Or looming over her, taking charge and scrubbing her clean and whole and pure. Either way she'd be good. Either way she'd be happy.

Demons didn't need to sleep, but no one argued against it. To demons, sleep was right up there with sex on the pleasure factor. The next morning, as sluggish creatures began to pick up their heads, Meg traced her fingers over Desmond's bare chest, lined with curled hairs. She hummed, content with her accomplishments from the night prior.

"_...Not bad, Cas_," she murmured absently. Desmond picked up his head, awake immediately.

"Who's Cas?"

Meg, fully aware now, looked up at him.

Desmond's eyes were almost-black.

"...No one," she quipped, moving to detach herself from him and reach for her clothes. Thankfully, to her relief, Desmond didn't pursue his inquiry. Meg by no means belonged to him, and he wasn't possessive enough of her to concern himself with whoever else she slept around with. As far as he was concerned, he was done with her. She'd fulfilled her purpose, pleasuring him, and the sentiment was mutual.

Only when Meg walked away that Christmas Day, there was a strange ache in her being. A strange lust for something that she'd never really had before, or remembered ever having in her past life. Desmond didn't give it to her, and she suspected that he never could. The feeling nagged her, and she hugged herself in her thin layers. Her breath left her lungs as cold as it went into them. Meg wrestled with this feeling, not quite certain if there was a name for it. And when she realized that it did have a name, she knew she was in deep trouble.

* * *

><p><strong>Having a stronger preference for Supernatural angels, writing this was certainly adventurous to me. Dabbling with writing "demon canon" isn't something I'm usually inclined towards, but my friend loves Meg (and Megstiel), so this piece is for her. Merry Christmas, Olivia. <strong>


End file.
